Teen Scene Saturdays: Loves Baby Soft, Armpits & the Chili Dog Disaster

If you were a teenage girl growing up in East Texas in the early '80s, Saturday night meant one thing: Teen Scene. It was the place to be if you liked boys, music, and the dream of a slow dance with your latest crush under a disco light that may or may not have been borrowed from a skating rink in 1976.

The building itself was nothing special, a rectangular metal box plopped down in a gravel lot, like someone gave up halfway through building a bowling alley. But inside? Magic. The floor was scuffed from what I’m pretty sure were old roller rink days, the walls were covered in fluorescent posters and darkness, and there was just enough lighting to keep you from tripping over someone’s high-top Reeboks. A snack bar sold warm sodas and candy that tasted like it had lived three summers in the machine. But nobody cared. This was where love stories began… and ended.

There was always at least one girl crying in the corner, huddled up with her friends like a Hallmark breakup commercial. Some boy had broken up with her during a fast song, right before her favorite slow song came on. It was basically tradition.

Now, before I could get there, I had a full routine.
See, I didn’t just go to the Teen Scene. I had to prepare for the Teen Scene.

Let’s talk about the reality of my situation: I lived in a trailer that smelled like Marlboros, wet dogs, and cat pee. And that’s on a good day. My mama smoked inside like it was her last day on Earth, and we had so many animals that the carpet had given up. That smell? It soaked into everything. My clothes, my hair, my soul.

So every Saturday after my shift waiting tables at the BBQ restaurant, where I left smelling like sausage links and brisket grease, I’d take my tip money and head straight to the department store. Why? Because I wasn’t about to show up at the Teen Scene smelling like my house or the pit. I wanted to smell like Love’s Baby Soft and freedom.

I'd grab a new shirt or some legwarmers, something that looked halfway cool, and then I’d make a quick stop at the Washateria. (That’s a laundromat, for you city folks.) In the bathroom, I’d lean over the sink, wash my hair right there, and dry it with the hand dryer until I looked like a poodle caught in a windstorm. Not perfect, but better than brisket head.

By the time I arrived at the Teen Scene, I was clean, scented, and fully transformed into what I hoped resembled a normal teenage girl.

And there he was.

That one boy I’d liked from afar at school. Cute, quiet, with a little Texas swagger that made 14-year-old me dream of riding off on a four-wheeler into the sunset. He was always there, two-stepping with other girls. I admired from the sidelines, too shy to even make eye contact, until that night.

That night, he asked me to dance!

Now, I had never learned to two-step. I barely knew how to walk without tripping over my own shoelaces. But I said yes. Because when your crush asks you to dance, you don’t say no, even if the song is some boot-stomping country number that moves faster than your reflexes.

Within seconds, he had me spinning and sliding, like we were in some kind of Texas tornado drill. I tried to keep up, but it felt like my feet were on a different radio station than the rest of my body. I apologized mid-spin, and he smiled and said, “It’s alright,” which was very kind considering I may have kicked him…twice.

The song was “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” and by the time it was over, I was sweating like the devil won instead of Johnny.

I stumbled into the bathroom and stared in horror at my brand-new cotton, teal shirt, completely soaked through. Armpits, back, even the waistline. I looked like I’d been in a water balloon fight and lost. I was mortified. I figured I'd slip out quietly and disappear forever.

But no, some sweet guy came up and asked me to dance to a slow song. And I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

So there we were, arms around each other, his hands on my back. I could feel the squish. But then I realized… his shirt was soaked too. Bless him. Maybe we were meant to find each other in our mutual misery.

And then it happened.

Right there in the middle of Donny Osmond crooning about Deep Purple Dreams, my body waved the white flag. Maybe it was the nerves, the heat, or the questionable chili dog I ate earlier, but I vomited.

Right. On. The. Dance. Floor.

The DJ slammed the record to a stop and got on the mic like he was announcing a tornado warning: “Everyone off the dance floor, someone has thrown up!”

Lights came on. People screamed. A girl slipped right in the middle of it and went down like a cartoon character, legs flailing, arms pinwheeling, and landed square in the splatter zone.

She stood up furious, dripping, her face redder than her Cherry Icee, yelling loud enough for the Lord to hear. And I’ll never forget her once-white pants, they looked like my chili dog met a blender and lost.

She was mad!

And right then, I could almost hear my Momma’s voice float through the air:
“You can get glad in the same pants you got mad in.”

And I guess in this case… the same pants you got launched across the dance floor in, too.

To make things worse, that boy I thought was so sweet, the one who soaked through his shirt just like me? Yeah… he told everyone it was me.

Loudly. Repeatedly. Like he was trying to secure an alibi on the evening news.

I guess he didn’t want to take the blame, and sweating in sync apparently doesn’t mean much when you're both standing in a puddle of chili-dog regret.

So I ran out of there, shirt clinging to me like a second skin, face burning, dignity somewhere near the snack bar. And sure, I dreaded going to school on Monday. I was convinced I’d be a punchline before first period.

But you know what?

No one ever said I didn’t make an impression.
And in a world full of forgettable dance nights,
I became a story they’d tell for years.

Now that’s what I call… a showstopper!